Buttons and Ice Cream
by Brandolyn
Summary: A semi-fluff story about Brianna living with MS. *Occurs after "The Undesirable Case" The story reads differently than usual. Sherlock is written fairly 'normal' because that's how Brianna sees him. Short and cute.


I hate buttons.

I haven't always hated buttons, but recently they seem to be out to get me. Even on a good day they are tricky to slip through a button hole, and they always make removing clothing an arduous task; instead of simply pulling a shirt over my head, I must first undo the buttons at the neck and wrist, or otherwise turn the shirt inside out and pull with all my strength until the sleeves eventually pop off of my wrists. What a pain. And when I'm having a bad day, they seem to know and decide to avoid the ever elusive button hole, as I have come to call them.

I hate buttons._ However_, I think as I look across the room at Sherlock as he dresses for his latest case_, I do love how buttons pull the shirt tight across his chest_. I smirk, and add that small detail to the sketch I'm working on.

"What?" He asks me looking up after tucking in his deep purple shirt. Until he wore this shirt I had always hated the colour purple. Now I wish it were in my life more often. He sounds bored, but he looks slightly intrigued.

"Nothing." I smile my cutest, most innocent smile and focus my attention back to the sketch book on my lap. He ignores me again and goes back to getting ready. My sketch is nearly finished. It's Sherlock in his dark trousers and tight fitting collared shirt, looking every bit as handsome as the day I first met him.

"Wow." Sherlock had crossed the room and is looking over my shoulder at the charcoal sketch I made of him. I laugh.

"Well, it may not look quite right but imagine it with some colour and a little less _shaky_." I may hate buttons, but I love charcoal, it's one of the only remaining mediums I use: chalk, conté and charcoal. Charcoal moves and blends easily, so it's easy to hide my mistakes, and lately I've been making a lot. It wasn't perfect, but I liked it well enough.

"It's brilliant." He smiles at me, unashamedly proud. "You are as talented as ever." He says beaming.

"Don't make fun." I shut my sketch book as a shudder runs down my spine, down my leg and through my left foot. I wince uncontrollably. Without hesitation Sherlock reaches down and very gently puts one finger under my chin to raise it up. He brings his mouth down to mine and caresses me softly.

Most couples kiss, but Sherlock and I, we caress. It sounds cheesy, and maybe it is, but we do and I love it.

When I was growing up I went on a few dates and had a few stolen kisses, but nothing ever made me want more, so I never got time to practice kissing. Sherlock has told me on several occasions that I am the first girl he ever truly kissed; the only girl he'd ever been interested in realistically, so he didn't know what he was doing either. I've never known if we just got lucky, or if we're doing it wrong because we didn't know what to expect when our lips first touched, but either way, we never simply '_kiss'._

Our first caress was long awaited by both of us, it just sort of happened, like a reflex and ever since, when we kiss it's sweet, tender, prolonged and deliberate. That's not to say that it's unseemly, but it is so true that we keep them to ourselves; the rest of the world can have their kisses, and we will keep our caresses to each other.

This caress makes me weak in the knees and I am glad that I'm still sitting down. He holds me close as we break apart, whispering softly,

"Sorry I won't be here tonight, but I'll see you in the morning."

"Wait," I call and pull him back. He had missed one of his shirt buttons and I fix it for him. Fortunately, today it doesn't take me too long. He thanks me and leaves.

Whenever Sherlock's gone, either for work or out with John, I usually become extremely productive. When I'm not at the National Gallery, I work from home, so a nice quiet house is perfect. Tonight however, my work was going to wait. Every time I look at my studio I feel a needle sharp pain right behind my eyes. Work can wait till morning. I should go straight to bed, but I have a book that I am dying to finish.

I curl up in Sherlock's chair for a while reading, but that numbing pain I've been trying to avoid all day creeps up on me in the silence. Before I can fixate too long on my pain, I get a text.

_If you can't sleep, take a bath. If you're sleeping, sleep well._

_-SH_

Maybe a bath will help.

Sherlock and John designed the bathroom specifically for me. He had it painted a relaxing pale blue, with white trim and lights that dim over the tub for really hard days. The bath helps a lot; the pain in my head and behind my eyes was nearly gone, and the prickling in my spine disappeared, but the heat has made my feet and hands sluggish; I nearly fall out of the bath as my feet drag clumsily out of the tub.

Immediately my tension returns.

Relax.

It isn't just my work, the pain or nearly falling out of the tub that is making me tense. That's annoying, but I deal with this every day; it just gets worse whenever Sherlock works nights- adding worries about him to the jungle of stuff I have to deal with.

I had always dreamed of becoming a Police Officer. I have the fitness, the focus, the drive, but as my Doctor has pointed out several times; I cannot pass the physical. Multiple Sclerosis hasn't stopped me from doing anything before, but when my symptoms get worse in stressful situations, it's hard to keep a high stress job. I came to terms with Sherlock's job a long time ago. I'm really proud of him, but it doesn't keep me from worrying.

I open Sherlock's closet and pull out a deep blue, long sleeved jumper and put it on; I don't remember if he's ever worn it, definitely not out of the house but it smells like him, like peppermints and violin strings. I picked the one shirt he owns that doesn't have buttons and slip the shirt on easily. I look in the mirror out of habit and sigh.

Fitness-wise my health has never been better, I'm lean and muscular; not that I can see any definition under the sweater, but I can see it in my bare legs. I have strong calves after hours on the tread mill. Fitness is important; Sherlock stays fit for his job- I always hear stories of him and John dashing around London- and I stay fit to challenge him, besides, my Doctors, John included, are always telling me that _fitness staves off illness_.

"Liar." I accuse the mirror. I don't know if fitness keeps illness away, but if you're fit, at least you still look great when you get sick.

I close my eyes and shake out my limbs trying to relax my body starting with my neck and shoulders, then my back and hips. I wiggle my toes, at least, I think I do. I open my eyes and check the mirror. Yep, they're moving. I sigh relieved. I haven't been able to feel them in a while; nothing more than a constant numbness.

I tip toe down the hall, careful not to trip over myself, to the kitchen and make myself a pot of tea; Cinnamon Apple Spice is my favourite. Sherlock prefers a plain black tea, but I like my warm cup of tea to smell of Christmas.

My favourite mug is sitting on the counter; a green mug with the drawing of an owl wearing a bow tie with the caption "Dr. Whooo", that Sherlock got me for my birthday. It's my favourite, so we've agreed to keep it on the counter so that I don't risk dropping it from the cupboard. I broke a mug and two plates last week.

The problem with my situation is that I can be perfectly fine one moment, then the next moment a jolt of pain; like a really bad internal shock will make me twitch uncontrollably. Sometimes I'm glad we don't have kids, what if I suddenly twitched and dropped the baby? Or held on too tight trying not to drop it? I sigh again and focus on my tea. It's steeped a bit too much for my liking, but it'll be fine.

Habitually I open the freezer. We've already eaten, Mrs. Hudson made us Fillet Mignon with potatoes and asparagus, but I wanted something sweet to go with my tea. I had made homemade popsicles out of lemon water and popsicle sticks. Inside the freezer, on the middle row was a half pint of my favourite ice cream, with a note attached.

_Some days it's O.K to cheat.(But keep tonight out of your notes)_

If I wasn't so excited to be having ice cream when I'm supposed to be measuring the effects of a dairy-free diet, I would have burst into tears.

I grab the half pint of Chocolate ice cream, one spoon, my tea and hurry into the living room. I quickly make a small fire and pull on the blanket the Watson's had given us last time I was ill and snuggle up on the couch. I often call the living room Sherlock's study. He has piles of papers, shelves of books, experiments lying out and he still has a map of London tacked up on the wall behind me with several pictures of strangers linked together by a thin red cord; I can see it in the mirror over the fire place. It's also the only room in the flat with a fireplace, making it our favourite room.

The fire's comforting, but the later it gets into the night, the less I can fight how much everything hurts, no amount of tea or ice cream, or sappy movies can distract me anymore. I close my eyes, curl up on the couch and cry as my body twitches painfully out of my control. I pray that everything still works the same when I wake up; because I never know what to expect when I open my eyes in the morning.

When I wake up Sherlock is holding me tight. We're still on the couch in the living room, covered by the blanket. There's golden early morning sunlight peeking through the shades. It's morning, and he's home.

I realize he's somehow under me. He must have picked me up while I was sleeping. He has one hand wrapped around my middle, while the other strokes my hair gently, as if he's afraid to break me. I bury my face into his shoulder before I realize he's talking to me. His deep, rumbly voice is soothing.

"Relax." "I'm home." "Relax." He repeats over and over. Every time my body twitches I feel his hands hold me tighter, as if he thought that if he can hold me still, it won't hurt so much.

"How was work?" I ask sleepily. I hear a rumble in his throat that signals indifference.

"It was nothing compared to your night." His hand is still drifting slowly from the top of my head down my spine. For the first time since I came into the living room that night my body lay perfectly still. The skin on my neck prickles happily at his touch and I conform to his body comfortably. We lay still for a while.

"I shouldn't have left you alone tonight." Sherlock whispers to the back of my head. I turn around and prop myself up on his chest. I look at him thoughtfully remembering all the ways he was with me last night; he designed my relaxing bathroom, he sent the text message, I wore his jumper, he left me ice cream with the note … the list went on and on.

"You didn't." I say proudly, before I lean down and caress him. He holds me tight again and we settle into the couch for a long over-due nap.

I fall asleep happily knowing that in the morning, if nothing else works properly, but I can still kiss Sherlock like that, and be kissed by him the same, then I will be happy.


End file.
